The Ninth Circle
by Sparked To Life
Summary: The worst thing about it all is the cold.


**The Ninth Circle**

When Bucky is fifteen, he reads Dante's _Inferno_.

Bucky isn't the literary type; he doesn't bury his nose in a book whenever he gets the chance. While he had been known to occasionally get caught up in a good page-turner, he usually had better things to do than plop himself down for hours on end just to finish a book. Steve's more of the reading type, thanks to his asthma and sickly form making him unable to enjoy sports. He was well-known for dragging home every battered tome he could scrounge up, before burning through it and bugging Bucky about every little thing it had said.

("It's not _actually_ a cave, Buck! It's just a metaphor for the author's-"

Blah blah blah...)

But then Steve gets sick, again, and Bucky is sitting watch by his bedside, and when he finds the battered, dusty book titled _Inferno_ laying next to the punk's bed, he starts reading without a second thought, because Steve hadn't stopped shivering for the last half hour no matter how many blankets Bucky cocooned him in and he needed _something_ to focus on so he could stop the traitorous thoughts of _this time, just maybe this time, Steve_ wouldn't _get back up -_

Because, damnit, that stubborn punk would always get back up, if Bucky had anything to say about it.

(But he didn't, not when it came to the illnesses, and that was one of the things that tortured Bucky the most: He could take on the biggest bullies in Brooklyn for his friend, but when it came to a germ so small he couldn't even see it, James Buchanan Barnes was powerless.)

He isn't very impressed with the book; it's more Steve's speed. It's too roundabout for his tastes, with the elaborate verse dancing around the subject and the way the author beat you over the head with symbolism.

The Ninth Circle of Hell briefly catches his interest, however.

It's not fire and brimstone; it's not at all how you'd usually imagine the deepest pit of Lucifer's fiery domain.

Instead, it's barren, freezing ice where traitors are buried alive.

Honestly, he doesn't agree at all with the interpretation. Bucky has lived through many a harsh New York winter; he knows cold, knows the bone-aching burn of the chill. He also knows heat, from the harsh sunburns wrought from peddling newspapers all day in the heavy sun, to scalding burns won from clumsiness in his mother's kitchen, to the time that he had been horsing around in his living room despite his parent's warnings only to trip and char his hand on the radiator. Of the two, Bucky would deem heat to be the worst. Ice was one thing, but, in his mind, the flames and fumes of Hell would never fail to be the worst punishment imaginable. Dante's interpretation holds no gravity for him.

Then, Steve properly wakes up for the first time in _days,_ and Bucky is rushing so fast to fulfill his request for water that he tosses the book aside.

He does not pick it back up again.

While Bucky never quite forgets about the publication, he doesn't think about it either. He doesn't think about the endless cold, or how it might feel against his skin.

(Because he is fifteen, and drunk on his own immortality, and he has much bigger things to worry about like work and his family and getting enough money for Steve's medicine to bother with meaningless interpretations by long-dead poets. After all, it's not like it would ever have any relevance to him.

Right?)

* * *

There is a war, and Bucky is a sergeant, and it is cold.

These are things Bucky knows.

(He also knows there's some scrawny little punk waiting for him back in Brooklyn, but he doesn't like to think about his stubborn little friend in such a brutal landscape, especially considering how hard he fought trying to get there.

Steve had been one of the lucky ones, even if he would never accept it.)

He knows other things, like the screams of his men and the blast of bombs and the splatter of blood against too-white snow, but mostly, he knows the cold. (But mostly, he prefers to _think_ about the cold. It's so much easier to think about that than to think about Jensen, whose legs got blasted off three days ago, or Carver, who's got four kids and a wife that he will never see again, because he took a bullet to the head last week, or Jackson, who's eighteen years old and will never get any older, because his eyes just got deader and deader and the war just got harder and harder, and yesterday he ate one of his own bullets rather than keep going, or -

Bucky prefers to think about the cold.)

It's so much harsher than it was in Brooklyn, the kind that settles in your core and begins to eat you alive from the inside out. Frostbite's become a major problem; two of his men woke up today to find some of their toes had fallen off into their socks while they slept, and everyday, Bucky has less and less of a clue how to take care of his fellow soldiers.

Bucky prefers to think about the cold.

And, when his face is pressed hard into the snow and the rest of the 107th are getting rounded up like animals, Bucky thinks about the cold, and reflects that maybe, just maybe, Dante had a point about it.

* * *

When Bucky falls, he expects to die.

He doesn't consider the experiments he had been subjected to during his time as a POW; he doesn't consider the fact that he had always had a quicker recovery time than anyone save Steve, despite the fact that that hadn't been the case before they siphoned him full of things he'd need a degree just to be able to pronounce.

He falls, and he expects to die.

He doesn't.

Instead, he finds the cold.

The snow falls over his broken body, and the cold presses down on all sides until he can't breathe.

Once, Bucky had heard about how when you freeze to death, you feel warm at the end. The cold seeps away until it's like you're on a sunny beach rather than a freezing snowbank, and at the end, it doesn't hurt.

And Bucky thinks that he'd be okay with dying, if it meant that the cold would go away.

When the men come, warmth had long been tingling at the tips of his fingers.

At first, he thinks it's Steve and the rest of the Howling Commandos, because God knows that that stupid punk would crawl down a mountain range if it meant not leaving a man behind. And, for a moment, he's so, so _grateful._

And then that moment ends.

They're not Steve, they're not the Commandos, and Bucky is suddenly very, very scared. They drag his half-frozen, unconscious carcass back to yet another lab, and when Bucky wakes up, he has a metal arm.

As if he's some kind of science experiment.

Some kind of monster.

It didn't matter, Bucky tells himself. Steve would come, and he'd throw that stupid shield at every last one of these damn Nazis, and then Howard would simultaneously criticise and applaud the craftsmanship of that horrific, Frankenstein-esque metal arm while Bucky made him take it off.

Steve would come.

Steve would come.

Steve would come.

Steve doesn't come.

Instead, his wardens laugh while they tell the loyal Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes that Captain America is dead, and laugh even harder when Bucky cries. He clings to the memories of that stupid little punk from Brooklyn who did not know when to quit, and he screams.

Because, damn it, _Steve was not supposed to be in this war._

(Bucky prefers to thinkabout the cold. It's so much easier to think about that than to think about Jensen, whose legs got blasted off, or Carver, who's got four kids and a wife that he will never see again, because he took a bullet to the head, or Jackson, who's eighteen years old and will never get any older, because his eyes just got deader and deader and the war just got harder and harder, and he ate one of his own bullets rather than keep going, or -

Or Steve, a scrawny little punk from Brooklyn who stood up to bullies right up until the second he drove his plane into the sea.)

Then, they drag him to a chair that sends fire through his veins and in his skull, and Bucky is _burning burning burning,_ and he can't cling to the memories of Steve anymore, not when he's engulfed in flames, and and and -

The burning stops, and he does not know who he is.

He does not know where he is.

He does not know why he suddenly feels like he has lost something important.

He does not know anything.

The men around him call him Asset, which doesn't seem to fit, and Soldier, which kind of does but not exactly. Then, they put him in a tube that is too small, and when it starts to hum, frost creeps across the glass.

There is cold.

There is nothing else.

* * *

When They defrost the Asset, They wipe him, program him, and give him orders.

This does not change.

The orders change, sometimes. Sometimes, he is sent to get something for Them, whether its weapons or oddly colored serums or, occasionally people. Sometimes, he is ordered to train a new Asset.

(Once, there had been a girl, with lips like blood and hair like flames, the Asset thinks. She could _fighthurtkillkillkill_ better than any of the others he had trained, and the Asset couldn't help but wonder why that thought filled him with such regret.

Once, there had been a girl, with lips like blood and hair like flames, the Asset thinks. She would smile at him wickedly with her red, blood lips, and the Asset couldn't help but wonder why that image began to melt the frost from his mind.

Once, there had been a girl, with lips like blood and hair like flames, the Asset thinks. She would dance around a battlefield far too gracefully for their bloody, brutal sport, and when she smiled at him, the Asset would feel warm.

Once, there had been a girl, with lips swollen red from kisses and flaming hair tangled in a metal arm, the Asset thinks. She would touch him, and the frost would melt away and the Asset would be warm again, and he _wouldn't_ be the Asset anymore, he would be -

Wipe them.

There had never been a girl.)

When they put him back in the cryo tube, the Asset does not remember why they took him out in the first place. Then, the machine begins to hum and frost creeps over the glass.

There is cold.

There is nothing else.

* * *

Most of the time, the Asset is ordered to kill someone.

He does not remember their names, nor their faces, nor the fact that he was ever ordered to kill. All the Asset knows is that, sometimes, he will look down at his hands, one gleaming silver and one scarred flesh, and he will see blood that is not really there.

Then, there is more orders, and a cheering crowd, and a convertible.

When the Asset lines up to take his shot, he does not understand why there is a part of him fighting the orders with everything he has, why there is a part of him remembering the words _I, James Buchanan Barnes, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the_ _ **President**_ _ **of the United States**_ _and the orders of the -_

The shot lines up.

The Asset fires.

Then, there is a screaming crowd and a woman in a pink outfit diving for the back of the vehicle, and a little part of the Asset dies.

The Asset had not realized that that part of him had ever lived.

The Asset goes back to base, is put in the chair, and receives a wipe. Then, there is a small metal tube that he knows but does not remember, and frost begins to creep across the glass.

Another part of him is still alive, and it is screaming _**traitortraitortraitor**_ in an accent the Asset does not remember. This part vaguely remembers reading about the suffocating ice once before, and it thinks this is a fitting punishment.

There is cold.

There is nothing else.

* * *

In the Asset's supply pack, there is:

A fully equipped medkit.

A three-day supply of MREs.

Two guns, six knives, and eight clips of bullets.

A single lighter.

Protocol dictates that the weapons are the most important items in the pack. The small part of the Asset that can still think is _screaming_ that the lighter is more important.

The Asset holds it in his metal hand, turns it over with a distant fascination, and flicks it to life.

The small flame is warm. The Asset cannot remember the warmth anymore.

He wants to. He wants to so badly that it consumes his every thought, _itsnotthereanymorewhyisn'titthereanymoreohGodwhyisitso_ _ **cold**_ constantly flitting across the back of his mind. And so the Asset drags the fire across his still-flesh arm, and, briefly, he feels warm.

(He also feels pain, but this is so common in his existence - not life, the Asset does not know how he knows but he knows that this is not a life - that he doesn't care.

Nothing hurts worse than the cold, anyway.)

When his mission is done and another person is dead, the Asset returns to base, and his handler asks him how he received the burns.

The Asset tells him. His handler reprograms him so that he can no longer hurt himself. They wipe him again.

As the frost begins to creep across the glass, the Asset knows that he will never, ever be warm again. He does not remember how he knows this. Another part of him dies.

There is cold.

There is nothing else.

* * *

There is a dark road, and a car, and a man with blood leaking down the side of his face.

 _("Help my wife. Please. Help her.")_

"Sergeant Barnes," he greets lowly.

And a part of the Asset is _screaming,_ shouting at the top of its lungs _oh God no that's Howard that's_ _your_ _ **friend**_ _ **fightitfightitfightit.**_

The Asset beats the man until he stops breathing. It only requires two hits.

Another part of him dies. The Asset already feels too empty to notice.

The frost is there again, and the Asset _knows_ he deserves this fate.

There is cold.

There is nothing else.

* * *

There is a man on a bridge, and the Asset knows him.

 _He knows him._

The man called him Bucky, and it sounds more correct than Soldier and Asset ever did. The word - name, _his_ name - sets him alight in a way he had never experienced before, and, oh God, _he's warm again._

 **Wipe him.**

There is a man on a helicarrier, and the Asset knows him.

He carries a shield of red, white, and blue, and this is familiar to the Asset in a way that makes him want to weep. The man is talking again, calling him that word - _Bucky -_ and telling him about friendship and lines in a way that shouldn't make sense to the Asset but still does.

He thinks that the man should be smaller.

There is man in the river, and Bucky knows him.

And he can't let him drown.

Well, that's a bit of an inaccuracy. The Asset - _Bucky -_ could let him drown, could _easily_ let the man _mission_ **man** die. The hard part is saving him. The Asset had been programed to end the life of the man; going against that programming is akin to yanking out his own fingernails.

He saves the man anyway.

 _ **Because he knows him.**_

He doesn't know how he knows him; he doesn't even know _himself._ But the man calls him Bucky and acts as if it should mean something, and the Asset wants it to. He wants to be this Bucky so badly that he can't breathe, because the name is like warmth and dirty Brooklyn alleyways and _family,_ and the Asset does not remember any of these things but _wants_ to.

The man knows this Bucky.

The Asset does not.

The man could tell him these things, if the Asset stayed. If he waits until the man wakes up, then the man could tell him everything.

The Asset leaves the man lying by the water.

Because while the man may know Bucky, the Asset does not. And for the first time in forever, the Asset has freedom in his reach. There is no guarantee he will keep it if he waits with the man.

He chooses freedom.

But maybe, just maybe, he will come back when he learns who Bucky is.

As the Asset leaves the river, the cold wind cuts into his soaking, freezing form.

There is cold.

But there is something else.

* * *

Bucky had been a fool to ever hope for something else.

For a moment, he had had his freedom. He had had peace.

And then it all fell apart.

His demons had come roaring back into focus, and the little life he had carved out for himself had been torn to shreds before his very eyes. His old ghosts - old _betrayals -_ had finally clawed their way to light, and it was time for Bucky to pay the price.

(Traitors do not deserve forgiveness.)

"You sure about this?"

"I can't trust my own mind," Bucky (BuckyBuckyohGodhe's _Bucky)_ tells Steve. "So until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, going back under is the best thing. For everybody."

Steve was there as the new tube closed in over him, all clear glass and sleek metal yet still the same as the Gothic monstrosity that used to be a constant in his life. The stupid punk hadn't left him, hadn't realized that Bucky was nothing but a filthy traitor, that he _deserved_ every moment of the bone aching chill plaguing him.

 _("Sergeant Barnes.")_

The tube starts to hum. Bucky closes his eyes, and prays that when he wakes up, he will still be him.

(Bucky doubts this. If there is anything that he has learned in his too-long life, it's that his prayers don't deserve to be answered.)

There is cold.

There is nothing else.

* * *

 _"Livid, as far down as where shame appears,_

 _Were the disconsolate shades within the ice,_

 _Setting their teeth unto the note of storks."_

 **-Dante's Inferno**


End file.
